P E R S E P H O N E
by miss selah
Summary: Wait and Hide. Bide your time. He’d been looking for Jessica. Looking for Nikki. What he found, though, was better. And if it's not, then he can fix it. He wanted strength. But now he needs it. Or else Micah's gonna win. Micah x Sylar


* * *

**P E R S E P H O N E **

* * *

The home is empty.

It's happened before to Sylar, so he just decides to wait. He's come too far, all for the power of strength, to go back home. . . not that he's sure where home is anymore. It used to be a little clockshop, full of dust and dead mechanisms. Then it was with that scientest, pretending to be a taxi cab driver. Then it was his son.

No matter. He'll wait. Bide his time.

He'll find peace someday. In the mean time, hiding underneath beds never hurt. After all, he is the boogeyman.

* * *

He didn't know she had a kid. He does now.

"Mommy, you aren't going to make me go back to her place again, are you?" The boy is tiny and frail and dark and beautiful, and Sylar is focusing on _him _and not the woman.

"Honey, Tina _likes _you. Plus, she has ice cream!" Jessica Nikki tells the boy, who is shuffling around and sighing as though he had been thoroughly screwed.

Sylar shifts his attention to the woman. Her hair is long and blonde, and it's meant to distract. After all, how can someone with such pretty plumes be dangerous? But she is. She's the same as him.

Which makes him wonder about the boy. . .

From his vantage point, on the floor in her room, he can see up and up her skirt, which is filled with legs-for-days-for-fucking. Or for kicking like a mule. Another distraction.

"I don't like ice cream." Sylar shakes his head. He's lying, of course. No boy could ever hate ice cream.

A sigh from Nikki Jessica is follows a hand through that hair. "Micah, I have to go to work. You have to be watched."

"Whatever." The child – Micah – is flippant because that's the way of young boys. It's their mother's job to stop them.

So why is Jessica Nikki talking to herself in the mirror?

"He never listens. . ." Nikki Jessica is crying, her forehead against the glass. "Why can't I just do something right?"

"Because you're weak, Nikki." The mirror, much to Sylar's surprise, answers back. "Let me take over. . ."

She leaves the room, leaves the house, yelling to her son that she'll be back in a minute. No matter. A minute's all he'll need.

* * *

He is just going to leave. After all, who wants super-strength when it comes with talking mirrors? The woman obviously had some power, but it was twisted and scewed and he would find someone else with super strength. It had to be a common power.

He is going to leave. But first, he is going to stop.

He peeks around the corner of the boy's room, because he hears a familiar sound – metal on metal, the rhythmatic scrapping of screwdrivers on cogs. Painful memories sweep over him. . . and he is reminded of a boy called Gabriel.

His presence is notices – the boy looks up and screams.

Sylar enters the room, all smiles and lies, with his hands in the air. "Sorry I'm late. Is Nikki here?' The lies come easily, and he doesn't even have to think them out. Already, he is another person, another face. One who a little boy could trust.

"Who are you?" Micah asks, his eyes still fearful, his voice trembling with something. Hope, perhaps.

He is going to trust me, Sylar knows, because I dropped his mother's name. Children always trust their mothers. "Oh, she's hired me to be your babysitter while she's. . . at work." This lie is a more difficult one to come up with, because he didn't entirely understand what he was doing, or why. Sylar nods his head towards the machine, a laptop, that is being built. "What are you doing there?" He asks, even though he knows the answer. "Building a brain?" He knows because he used to do it too.

Micah smiles – Sylar's humor is taken well, and the fear leaves his eyes. Leaves them blank and glossy and far, far away. "Yes." He answers, and beckons Sylar over with a wave of his hand. "See?"

It's impressive. One of the most impressive things he has ever seen. It's built to hold information, and it's built to think on it's own, and he can't believe that he wasn't the one who built it.

"How old are you, Micah?" Sylar asks, his eyes still studying the path of the machine, the cables and the disks.

"Eleven." Micah says, a bit wistfully. "But I'm almost twelve!"

Old enough.

"My name's Sylar, Micah." Sylar tells him. "And I'm the same as you."  
Sylar passes a hand over the motherboard that he is building, and thousands of tiny lights that Micah knows he hadn't put it blink to light, coming to life by this man's will.

"How did you do that?" The blank, glossy stare is gone, and what replaces it is something like hero-worship.

Sylar smiles. "Would you like me to teach you?" Micah is silent, which is all the answer that Sylar needs. Leaning in, he brush his lips against the little boy's ear, and feels the hair brush caressingly against his face. "Then come away."

* * *

He keeps him with him because they are the same. Exactly the same.

Micah, fifteen, is humming besides him, his wide eyes closed as he nods his head to the music that's coming from the iPod that he built. An RNA symbol graces the back, because that's what Micah decided would be his label. His eyes drift lower, across his lap, and he bites his bottom lip, thinking of what lies within. Thinking of what he helped to create.

"Mommy has a tattoo just like it, sometimes." Micah tells Sylar when he catches him looking at him. He thinks that he was looking at the RNA symbol. He is wrong. "It comes and goes, but it's a cool tattoo. I asked her once what it was, and she got all freaked out." He sounds annoyed, but Sylar knows better. "I miss her." He confides, and leans over to him, dropping his voice as he presses up against his arm on the stick. His tiny hand covers Sylar's much larger one, and Sylar gulps. He knows what the boy is doing. He knows the boy knows what he's doing. He knows it's wrong.

He just doesn't care.

"I can fix that."

* * *

Sylar hasn't had sex in four years, at least. He didn't remember how long it had been before that. He remembers, though, that it has been four years, because it's been nearly that long since he stole away the child instead of stealing away the mind of Jessica or Nikki Saunders. After all, you just can't go and have sex when you have a child with you.

Micah, though, was trustworthy enough to leave by himself by the time he was thirteen, which didn't account for the last two years of chastity. Those were for a different reason entirely.

Because every time he brings a woman to the hotel they are staying at that night, or every time he goes to her place, all he sees is a little boy with big, brown eyes, staring up at him from his bed, fiddling with some gadget or another, smiling and trusting him.

And then he cant, because his mind is filled with little boys and how she – whoever she is – is not him.

* * *

He comes faster than the boy.

His experience, however little he has had, is nothing compared to the sheer ecstasy of being lost inside that tiny little ass, his hand cupped around the boy cock as he fucks him, one-pump-two-pump-one until he shudders and screams, his arms wrapped around the boy's tiny waist, shivering with pleasure.

The boy, who is still hard.

"Sylar. . ." Micah moans, his muscles trembling and aching and unfamilar as Sylar pulls out of his body, leaving a trail of blood and cum. "I'm. . . not. . . done. . ."

Sylar can help him with that, too.

"I'll fix it."

* * *

Micah is sixteen and looking at girls.

"Tell me again: why can't I have a girlfriend?" He demands, glaring at his mentor his lover his father his friend.

"Because!" Sylar says, and stops, stuttering, because he can't think of anything else. "We're always moving."

Micah's show of teeth is not a smile. "And that's my fault, how?" He asks. "You're the one who took me away from home!"

Sylar is fed up with the boy, because he never agrees with him, but he can't let him go because the only time that he is happy anymore is when he is buried cock-deep inside of him. "You just don't get it, do you?" He runs a shaky hand through his hair, a bit hysterically, and laughs. "Fine!" He concedes. "Get yourself a pretty girlfriend! See if I care!"

* * *

Micah comes back to the hotel room alone.

Sylar smirks snidely. "No girlfriend?"

He doesn't grace him with an answer, but his face is an open book. Possibly murder. "Shuddup, Sylar." He goes to the bathroom filled with mold filled with blood filled with bugs and washes his face in water that is more brown than his skin.

"Don't you know?" Sylar is right behind him, his hands on his pelvis, toying with his cock. His head drops, his voice, and he presses his lips to his neck. "We're exactly the same."

They are exactly the same. Except he's better. He has more powers, more life, than Micah has ever had the chance to have. Because of him.

He's seen him do it, even though Sylar doesn't know it. He's seen how he gets his new powers. By stalking and hunting and killing.

Micah always did learn from him.

* * *

They are on the trail of something big – _super strength_. Finally, after biding and waiting, Sylar is finally going to get what he's been waiting for. And he gets the knocks on the door of the duplex, smiling happily. "Miss Pierce?" He calls, knocking twice more. "I've come to answer your call about the puppy?" Another alibi, another face, another lie. It's easy to be someone. He's thousands of someones.

No one comes to the door, but it swings open slowly.

Sylar is more shocked than horrified. After all, it's not everyday he sees someone missing the top of their head. Well, unless he did it.

RNA is written in blood, a calling card, to show that it wasn't a copycat. . . it was an upgrade.

"Micah."

* * *

"How many people, Sylar?" Micah's voice is even and calm. "Ten? No, you're an overacheiver, aren't you." Micah has him pinned like a butterfly to the floor, because he's picked up a few more talents along the way. "Fifty?" Sylar's ass is in the air, and this time it's Micah who comes inside of him. "My mother?"

"No." It's the first time that he can honestly deny something. "Not your mother."

Micah smiles cruely, but the effect is lost on Sylar, who's eyes are shut in pain. "Of course not. Why would you?" He grabbs Sylar's hair, which is longer and dirtier and covered in blood, just like their hands. "You got me."

He stands, and Sylar stays on the floor where he belongs, because if he gets up he will just get thrown back down again. Micah holds up a finger – the same one he's always used – and grins. "Let's find out exactly how many people you have killed, Sylar."

Sylar screams. Micah wins.

* * *


End file.
